Page 34 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“Everything is a game. Some games just end with bodies buried six feet under.”
“This one may end with yours if you're not careful.”
I let the room go quiet. Not long. But long enough to let Omar know how close he stepped to the line. He is not afraid of me in the way other men are. That is part of why he has survived this long. But he knows what my silence means, and he knows better than to confuse loyalty with immunity.
“My body?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
His throat moves once. “Your plan.”
“That’s better.”
He lowers his gaze by a fraction. Not submission. Discipline. I taught him that. My father tried to teach obedience through fear, but fear creates weak men who lie in the shadows waiting to betray you. Discipline makes useful men. Omar is useful because he can tell me the truth and stop before the truth becomes vanity.
I stand, walking to the window. The glass reflects my study behind me, Omar near the door, the clean lines of the desk, the chair Maya slept in earlier with her file in her lap, and my letter opener beneath her thigh.
“She will ruin the plan if you keep underestimating what she is,” Omar presses.
“I am not underestimating her.”
“Then you are overestimating your ability to control her.”
That almost makes me laugh. Control is such a pretty word for men who have never owned anything difficult. My father worshipped it. He controlled doors, women, money, silence. He controlled the rooms I entered, the books I read, the men who trained me, the hours I slept, the food on my plate. He controlled my mother out of my life when I was five years old and called the absence discipline.
For years, I believed control meant nothing moved unless I allowed it. Then I learned better. Real control is not stillness. Real control is knowing how something will move when you let it loose.
“Maya will try to take the children,” I say. “She will try to contact the FBI. She will threaten me again.”
“Repeatedly, I imagine.”
“She will look for Leon with or without me.”
“Definitely.”
I turn from the window. “Then the smarter choice is to decide where she does it from.”
Omar says nothing, his expression pinched. Good. He is listening now.
“Before Maya,” I say, “the children were the plan. Leon was moving them out of Miami before the raid landed. He didn't bring them to the auction because he loved them. He brought them because they were inconvenient and valuable enough to sell, hide, or send away, depending on which choice made his night easier.”
Omar’s face gives nothing away, but his eyes harden. He was the one who intercepted the transfer. He saw the children before Maya did. He knows exactly how little Leon valued them as children and how much he valued them as property.
“You took them easily enough,” I continue. “The pilot was already preparing to leave. Leon’s men were focused on the raid. The children were supposed to disappear before anyone connected them to the rest of the operation.”
“They almost did,” Omar says.
“But they didn’t.”
“Does Leon know we have them?”
“Not yet.”
“Does he know someone took them?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Will he care?”
I hesitate. There it is. That had been the problem with the original plan.
